Yearnings of the Wind
by Whistle
Summary: The story is over, the kingdom saved, and the valiant knight has returned after defeating the evil wizard. But life goes on, and no one quite knows how to play the role they were given.


He returned on a cool autumn morning, when the air was brisk and the leaves were the color of the sunset, and the guards did not turn him away. No one threw insults or stones, and if anyone looked at him with disgust, they did so behind his back. The trumpets echoed across the vast halls of the castle as he walked past. Guards saluted him, swords raised high in the air, and when he knelt in front of the throne, King Guardia XXI bid him rise.

"We are in your debt, Frog of Guardia," he said. "If there is ever any way this kingdom might repay you, I shall see it done."

And, with the weight of a hundred eyes on his back, Glenn bowed to his king as Queen Leene watched silently from her throne..

"Will you stay, now that your travels are over?" she asked afterwards, as they walked alone through the castle's corridors.

"I believe that I will, at least for now."

There was something in her smile that almost seemed like relief. "I have missed you, Sir Frog. My nights are more peaceful when I know you're here to guard me."

He wished to protest, to remind her of his failure at the cathedral, but he swallowed the words before they could escape his throat. He knew better, now. Even if he did not contest these thoughts, there was no need to indulge them.

So, instead, he knelt.

The Queen held out a hand to him. "I wish to visit the forest. Will you walk with me?"

And so they sat among the fallen leaves in the warm light of the setting sun. She folded her hands in her lap and asked him about his travels. He spoke of the future that had once been, all dust, ash, and hunger; of Ayla's age, with its burning sun and plants and animals so alien it had seemed like a different world; of Lavos and its dying shrieks. He didn't speak of Zeal, or of what came after. There were no words to describe the enormity of it.

Leene asked about his friends and smiled when he told her of Marle's reconciliation with her father, of Ayla's and Kino's union, of Lucca and Robo's friendship. Of Magus he said nothing.

"And what of yourself?" Leene asked, and he found he didn't know the answer.

"I am well, my liege," he said simply, and bowed his head. "I'm honored to have fought among such noble companions."

"I'm glad to hear it."

Glenn nodded his thanks.

* * *

The Mystics struck three weeks after his return.

They were a small force, one of the few that still held out and refused to accept their loss. Chaotic and disorderly, but with the edge of desperation on their side. Imps, gargoyles, and snakes fought side by side. Some trembled at the sight of the blade that had felled their leader. Others charged him, raising their weapons with bloodcurdling shrieks. In the chaos of battle, among the clangs and shouts and blood, it made little difference in the end. The Masamune swung straight and true. It cut through flesh and bone as easily as through air. Mystic blood ran down its blade, glistening in the morning sun, and it was habit now to swallow down the revulsion.

The Mystics were led by a Naga. She weaved through the battlefield twisting and swinging her battle-axe with the force of a hurricane. When she turned her eye to him, he was ready. A well aimed blast of water sent her weapon flying, and she set upon him with her sharp claws. She fought with skill, quick as lightning and almost as deadly, but Glenn had faced far more fearsome opponents than her.

"The great Magus' memory lives on," she hissed as he held his sword to her throat. She drew her lips to bare her long, deadly fangs. "As long as we Mystics draw breath, we will honor his sacrifice with our blood."

 _The great Magus cares nothing for you or your blood_ , Glenn almost said, a faint cold creeping on his skin.

"I have seen what will come to pass," he said instead. "Mystics will live in peace with men, and they will prosper from their alliance. This war hath brought nothing but death and destruction. Shouldst thou care for the future of your people, then look for peace, not battle."

"Pretty words for a would-be prophet." The Naga spat a gob of blood on the ground. "But we both know that Man and Mystic cannot live together."

"Not now. But in time, if we work towards it, that will change."

"Spare your breath, cursed one. Just kill me and be done with it."

The Masamune pulsed with its power in his hand. It fit there as if it had been made for it. The Naga's scales were slick with blood, both hers and others'.

He lowered his blade.

"Enough have died today. Leave. Think on what I've said."

The Naga's face twisted with something that Glenn was too weary to make sense of. She hissed and Glenn's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, but she did not lunge. Instead she darted away into the underbrush, faster than lightning.

He didn't know how long he stood there, watching the sky above him.

Finally, he turned away.

A soldier stood behind him, covered in dust and blood, swaying on his feet and watching him with narrowed eyes. Glenn let out a slow, tired breath. "The battle is over. Go rest or tend to thy comrades."

"Yes," the man replied stiffly, bowing his head. "Sir."

Glenn wiped the blood from his sword as he watched him go. What had the man made of what he'd seen? What sort of treachery would the rumors turn his mercy into? As he made his way down to the hill to heal the wounded, Glenn couldn't bring himself to care. The whispers where an old companion.

He made his way back to castle alone. No one spoke to him, and whether they'd once again begun to distrust him or they'd simply noticed his weariness and chosen to respect it, Glenn cared little. He retired to his quarters and sat by the fireplace, letting its warmth seep through his limbs.

The fire turned the room into a contrast of warm light and dark shadows. Glenn closed his eyes.

"There's someone trying to spread rumors around this castle," came a familiar voice from the shadows, "that you have turned to the Mystics' side."

Glenn stiffened.

"I have not, though perhaps I should," he said. "If only for balance, after their leader has failed them."

"I would not have expected you of all people to disapprove."

"I do not." Glenn glanced at the man behind him. Magus stood where the fire's light licked at his feet without reaching his face, and his cloak billowed around him though no wind blew inside the room. He'd always liked his dramatics — though Glenn was not, perhaps, in the position to find fault in that. "But I wonder: feelest thou not the least bit of responsibility for the people thou hast abandoned?"

"No."

"No. I imagine thou knowest little of duty or honor." But Glenn was bruised and weary, and the blood on his blade still hung in his mind. There was no bite to his words.

"Hmph. You're lucky I have better things to worry about than you. Some time ago you'd have payed dearly for such words."

"Oh? Wouldst thou have turned me into a frog again? Or some other creature, perhaps? I've always wondered how a bird feels, soaring in the sky."

Magus' eyes bored into him, hard and piercing, as if he were a new spell to be studied. Glenn held his gaze. The Masamune was a comforting weight by his side, but he found he had no wish to let his hand go to the hilt. He would not give Magus the satisfaction.

"You haven't changed," Magus said, finally. His face was shrouded by the shadows; if he'd meant his words as an insult, Glenn couldn't tell.

"Perhaps. Why art thou here, Magus? Come to finish the job and destroy Guardia?"

"You flatter yourself if you believe your pitiful kingdom worth the effort. No. I came to search your archives, but they befit an illiterate peasant rather than a royal family. And you may take that complaint to your Queen."

"I'm certain she lies sleepless at night awaiting thine opinion on the matter." Glenn snorted. "Dedicating thyself to scholarship? I didn't think thee the type."

"You know nothing of me. But no — I'm simply looking for a record of how the pendant came into Guardia's possession."

Ah, the pendant. It was a natural place to look. Schala had worn it around her neck when they'd seen her last, as Lavos screamed and the Ocean Palace crumbled around them. If it were possible to track it through the millennia...

"How goes thy search, then?" he asked.

But Magus simply stepped back.

It was always strange to watch him fade into the shadows — not disappearing but melding into the darkness as if he'd always been just a trick of the light. Glenn remained still, listening for any sign of the sorcerer's presence, but the shadows around him were empty and the room was quiet save for the crackle of the fire and the distant voices of the guards.

"I wish thee luck," he whispered, once he was certain no one was there to hear him.

* * *

Glenn asked the question the following morning, as Queen Leene sat in her quarters to break her fast.

"Why do you wish to know?" she asked, frowning slightly.

"I am simply curious," Glenn replied, and though the words were not untrue they burned in his throat like a lie. "Marle wore the same pendant."

The Queen nodded. "Cyrus found it in the hoard of a Mystic warlord, but it was clearly not of Mystic origin. He thought it curious and brought it to me. I'm afraid I know no more details. My handmaids advised me not to wear it — it is old, and no matter how much you polish it it refuses to shine. But it is so beautiful. Cyrus told me that it didn't matter if it shone or not because any jewel would appear dull next to me." She laughed, and there was something almost unguarded in her gaze that made Glenn look away. "But Cyrus always said silly things like that."

Glenn smiled, because it was true. Like a knight out of legend, Cyrus had been brave and gallant, devoted to his country and his lady's honor. He'd walked through life with a grin on his face and a sword in his hand as if he'd been born to do this, and Glenn had followed behind him, filled with equal parts pride and envy and...

"It suits you, my liege," Glenn said quietly.

Queen Leene brushed her fingers against the pendant, softly. It hung from her neck, a dull, deep blue like the depths of the ocean. It had changed — or would change — after Crono had held it before the Mammon Machine. Something had filled it then, something they'd never noticed was missing, and the dreamstone had shimmered softly in the light. But by then they'd known where its power came from; Marle had told him once that she could feel it pull at her in the quiet of the night. The shadows under her eyes had almost mirrored Schala's then.

Leene said nothing. She simply stared out the window, where the hoarfrost was beginning to blanket the world world around them. The beginning of winter was upon them.

The cold had always made him sluggish ever since the change; it seeped down to his bones and sapped the strength from his muscles. Lucca had told him why, once, trying to explain words such as "ectothermy" or "thermoregulation" as Glenn struggled to stay awake in the icy, wind-swept plains of 12,000 BC. Lucca was no longer there to warm him with her magic, so he sat by the hearth-fire and told the new recruits his tales of battle. The shouts and cheers filled the smoky air of the common room, and, for a while, he could lose himself in his stories, where the air crackled with magic and the ground shook under their feet, and he could feel the impact of a single moment echo throughout history until time itself rippled at their touch.

But time passes, unrelenting. It can be bent, shaped, or turned back, but some things never return.

One foggy morning he left for Porre, where the air was milder than Truce's harsh, snowy winters. The King did not protest his leave. The war was nearly over, and those few Mystics that still fought were desperate and disorganized; the castle could go on well enough without him. The Captain raised his drink to Glenn's health and reminded him that the position would still be there for him upon his return, should he wish it. Queen Leene bid him farewell with soft voice.

The road south was quiet. The sun shone above him as he walked, the mountains of Denadoro stood beside him, and no bandits or mystics disturbed him.

His old home welcomed him as it always had. The roots of the nearby oak had won a few feet in their battle against the northern wall and a family of mice had taken up residence in his cooking pot, but his bed was still cosy and the woods were quiet save for the calls of the birds and the rustling of the leaves. There were no battles for him there, no queens or knights or Mystics.

Some days he ventured out as far as the town. He would eat at the pub and sit in corner of the town square, watching the people walk by on their business. Tata asked him to teach him how to hold a sword one morning. When Glenn refused, he asked again the following day. His eyes were wide and bright, and eventually Glenn relented.

"No, no, no!" he cried as Tata screamed and swung his wooden sword with more enthusiasm than skill. To his credit, the boy fell silent as Glenn adjusted his grip on the handle.

"This is a weapon," Glenn said. "It is meant to hurt others. Do not swing it without feeling its weight in thy hands."

The boy nodded.

* * *

Once the weather grew milder and the strength returned to his limbs, he journeyed north to visit Fiona and Robo in their forest. They welcomed him with open arms; Marco told war stories over dinner, and Fiona spoke of the tales and legends of the forest she'd been entrusted with. There was dirt under her fingernails. Robo stood unmoving in the corner, watching over his newfound family with his strange shining eyes.

There were already stories of the metal golem that worked miracles in the fields north of Porre without sleeping or eating. Some said it was a gift from the heavens to heal the land after the Mystics' army had ravaged it. Others said it was an abomination, given life by Magus' dark magic to spy on the world of men. If only they could have seen how disdainful Magus had been of the thinking metal beings that the men of the future had created without magic, and the lightning that coursed through their bodies like blood.

It was a strange thing to talk to this Robo who had yet to live through the events that Glenn remembered, as if they were two wheels of a cart that had fallen out of alignment yet still rolled down the same path. But Robo didn't ask about the future, and Glenn didn't speak of the past.

"Spring will come soon," Robo told him afterwards, as they sat together in the shade of what was left of the old forest. "Fiona says this year may bring the first new saplings, if we're lucky."

"'Twill be a sight to see. How is life, my friend?"

Robo's head whirred softly with the noise that Glenn had come to recognize as a machine's thoughts. "It's very quiet and the work is dull and repetitive, but I find it soothing. I used to have so many things to occupy my processing systems, but now that my tasks are more easily automated I find more time for contemplation. Nurturing life is different from taking it. I think I like it better."

Glenn nodded. Part of him understood that, the part that had once looked at Cyrus' knights with their bloodstained swords and found nothing for him there. It had been so long now that it felt strange to think about.

"I'm glad thou art happy here."

"I do miss traveling with you all. I've learned so much from you." There was a pause, and though no emotion showed on Robo's metal face or in his toneless voice Glenn knew who it was that he thought of most of all. "But it just means I have something to look forward to."

"Waiting for so long... 'Tis hard for me to imagine."

"I'll be all right. I know I will — otherwise you'd have come back for me sooner. Lucca's generator should last for a long time, if I'm careful to maintain it, and afterwards I'll shut down and wait for your arrival. It's Fiona I feel sad for. She won't live to see her dream come true."

Glenn looked behind his shoulder at the window, where the fireplace cast its warm light; he could see Fiona's silhouette move about the house. "All men know that their lives will end someday. Fiona's dream will survive her, and there will be someone to continue her work after her. 'Tis more than most can hope for."

"Yes." Robo's eyes were bright discs in the falling darkness. "Fiona tells me the same thing."

Afterwards, once the windows of the cottage were dark and Robo had left, Glenn left to practice his forms, losing himself in the familiar motions. Had the Robo who'd fought Lavos beside him remembered their conversations, Glenn wondered as he sent a bubble flying towards a tree trunk, or was he subtly changing the future even through a simple visit?

Lucca would have had the answer, he knew. She would have explained with a manic grin on her face and fire in her eyes until half the words coming out of her mouth were gibberish to him. He could imagine the scene easily enough. They would sit around the campfire as they rested from the day's battles. Lucca would expound her theories on time travel as she tinkered with Robo's inner workings, while Marle lay beside her asking questions with a child's glee. Crono would be dozing by their side, and Glenn would sit by the fire, sharpening the Masamune and trading tales with Ayla. The campfire would feel almost as warm as when he'd shared it with Cyrus, when they'd talk and laugh and—

Glenn brought his sword down with all his force; the blade cut through the air with a whistling sound.

He let his arm go slack.

The woods seemed different in the full moon's light. The bare trees shone like old bones, and the night turned their shadows into skeletal claws on the ground. His magic had left a puddle of water at his feet; it shone in the moonlight like a pool of silver in the grass, and when he knelt beside it his reflection stared back, clammy-skinned and yellow-eyed. A flick of his fingers and the image rippled, twisting and creasing as he imagined it must have done on that day so long ago.

When the reflection stilled, a figure loomed behind him.

Glenn tensed, but he did not move. "Magus. Come to torment me with thy company once more?"

"Don't flatter yourself. Between your sword and your magic, you've made yourself into a bright beacon to the magically inclined. I was simply passing by and chose to investigate the disturbance."

"Ah." Glenn rose to face him. "Of course. Had I known that magic would attract unwanted sorcerers, I might have though twice before accepting Spekkio's offer."

"You should have. Don't think of what he gave you as a gift."

"'Twould have made thy life easier, methinks."

"Perhaps."

The shadows always seemed deeper in Magus' presence, their edges flickering towards him as if drawn to their like. He looked like a phantom as he floated there in the moonlight, his face pale and hollow and his eyes as red as blood. Was Glenn destined to be haunted by him for the rest of his life? It seemed fitting, somehow. He'd exorcised his other ghosts.

Glenn sheathed his sword. "How hath life treated thee since last we met?"

"Stop this. I have no need for empty pleasantries. Don't bother to pretend you care."

Glenn turned away to lean back against a tree. His image of that warm little campfire hadn't been complete, before — Magus would have been a shadow behind them, watching silently where the light of the fire did not reach him. A sharp, oppressive darkness followed the man wherever he went. And he hadn't changed since their travels together.

"Very well," Glenn said. "We may speak of other matters, then. I have asked the Queen of thy sister's pendant. 'Twas taken by Cyrus from a Mystic warlord, I know not when or where. Thy search here is futile; the archives hold no record of it, and thou hast killed the only person to know more."

He hadn't meant his words to come out so spiteful — or, if he had, he hadn't realized it.

"I don't remember asking for your aid in this matter." Magus' voice was chilly, and Glenn couldn't bring himself to care.

"No. My aid was freely given."

"Stay out of this. I don't need your help."

"No. Thou hast no need of anyone, after all. 'Twas not necessity that drove thee to fight beside us. Dost thou believe thou canst do everything alone, Magus? After what happened when Schala—"

" _Enough_."

Magus stepped forward.

"Are you trying to hurt me, _Glenn_?" he snarled, and that name from his lips was more cutting than any scythe. "Do you think me so frail? Do you think these aren't things I tell myself every _day_?" He slammed his fist into the tree behind Glenn with a sharp crack that sent splinters flying. The shadows around him were sharp as knives, and he stood so close that Glenn could feel the warmth of his breath on his skin.

"If you wish to fight me," Magus said, and there was something cold and ugly and desperate at the edges of his voice, seeping into the cracks of his shell, "at least have the courage to do it with a sword."

Glenn looked at the man who had once been his enemy and saw his face twisted in anger, stark and raw under the moonlight. He wished he could tell him of what he'd learned, of what Crono and Lucca and Marle had taught him. He wished he could make him understand, but he didn't have the words to.

It was cold still, out there in Fiona's forest. If frogs could shiver, he would have.

"'Twas not my intention," he said in the end.

"Then you're as much of a coward as ever."

Magus drew back. Glenn turned away and tried not to hear the frustration in his voice.

"If I'm a coward then the fault lies with thee, for thou art the one who made me who I am."

Only silence greeted his words. Magus was gone, back into the shadows from which he'd come, and Glenn was alone in the cold night.

"Frog?" Robo's voice called out from the trees. The leaves of the underbrush rustled under his heavy footsteps. "Is there anyone here? My sensors detected voices."

"Only old ghosts," Glenn murmured, looking up at the stars. They were the only thing that had remained constant through the ages. Not unchanged, but they'd always been there, and sometimes it was a comfort to remember that there were still things that people could depend on.

* * *

He returned to the castle as spring began to bloom. The King and Queen welcomed him with open arms, and life went on.

With the thaw came new recruits, a collection of young boys with bony knees and wide eyes. Tata was among them, boasting of how the legendary hero had deigned to give him lessons. In the castle's dusty courtyard, under the shadow of its towers, he taught them to hold a sword, how to swing and parry and thrust. Eventually, they'd learn to kill with it, just as he had.

They followed him, starstruck, as others had once followed Cyrus. He wished he could tell them he was no hero, that heroes didn't exist — only people trying their best and sometimes succeeding. That legendary swords mattered less than the will of the one who wielded them. But Cyrus had been the one who could inspire courage and loyalty with mere words. Glenn could only teach them to hold a sword. In the end, it was the sword and the medal that these boys followed, not him. Maybe those symbols could be to them what Cyrus had been to Glenn, and if they were lucky it would be enough. If they weren't, then the other lessons would come later, soaked in blood.

He had been gentle and soft-hearted, and those things hadn't been faults. But they hadn't been what he'd needed then. Glenn had saved the world — or he'd do so in fourteen hundred years — and if he'd had to sacrifice something of himself along the way, he was willing to accept it. Cyrus had taught him that.

But to stand and watch as others made that choice...

Inside the castle, whispers followed him like shadows through the halls and corridors. "'Tis not proper for the owner of the Hero's Medal to hold such a lowly position," muttered the Chancellor in the banquet hall, leaning over to grab the stewed pears. "He refuses all honors the King bestows upon him. How can the King stand such an affront?" the Duchess of Porre whispered to her lady-in-waiting as he passed by. "Who is he really?" the guards would mumble among themselves when they thought he could not hear them. "He saved the kingdom, but we know so little of him. Is he truly a Mystic? Why else would he shield himself from others' eyes?"

More and more, Glenn found himself seeking the quiet of Guardia's woods, where no one was there to disturb him. He'd practice his magic and his swordsmanship until he forgot about everything else.

"You're not listening to me!" Spekkio had yelled at him once, while setting him on fire. "You're thinking of water as just its shape. You can do more than blow bubbles at people like some street-side entertainer. Water is flow, change, life!"

He let the water and the magic flow, felt its power swirl into him and out of him. The Masamune hummed in his hands, and it was only then that he felt he truly could breathe, as he had fighting beside his friends and allies, with the Masamune by his side and history at his fingertips.

Sometimes Queen Leene would come watch him, sitting by the edge of the glade.

"Do you miss being human?" she asked him one day, as they sat together under the canopy of the trees.

"I..." Glenn began slowly. He remembered his old shape the way he remembered his dreams: feelings, impressions, but when he tried to reach out and grasp the details they slipped between his fingers like leaves in a stream. He tried to imagine how it would feel to be human again. Would the Masamune fit his hand as well as it did now? Would his magic flow through his body as easily? Would he feel others' warmth as keenly?

When was the last time he'd considered such matters?

"I know not, my liege. It has been so long. I know not whether my old skin would still fit me. But I believe I am content to remain as I am."

"Are you? I can see you growing more restless each day."

"'Tis nothing, my queen."

Queen Leene simply inclined her head, watching him with her piercing eyes. She and Marle could have been twins, with their golden hair and sunny faces, but in character they were so different that Glenn knew not how they could ever have been mistaken for one another. Marle had been... not carefree, for her cares had indeed been many, but she had been like a stream of water that ran free — trying to contain her would only still her spirit. Where Marle had chafed under her responsibilities, Leene wore hers as a knight wore his armor.

"I would go and visit Cyrus," Glenn said at last, surprising himself.

Queen Leene simply nodded, her gaze sliding away from him. Glenn had never asked about her bond with Cyrus, just as he'd never talked about his. Maybe it was simple cowardice. Maybe some burdens weren't meant to be shared.

"I shall bring him words from you, if you wish."

"No." The Queen turned away. "I don't think there is anything left to say."

* * *

Choras had changed little from the quiet hamlet he'd known as a boy and he knew it would remain so in the centuries to come. The same sun-tanned faces from his youth populated the marketplace, with the added wrinkles and creases of twenty years. Farmers toiled and sweated under the baking sun. The potion-maker still hung her wares to dry in the sun. The face behind the inn's windows was not the old innkeeper's but that of his daughter. Two of the carpenter's helpers looked up from their dice to shout their greetings at him, and he nodded at them as he walked past. It was the frog who'd payed them a small fortune that they saw, not the scrawny boy they'd once tripped and kicked and chased through the woods. Few remembered little unremarkable Glenn of Choras, and he was glad for it.

More cowardice, perhaps.

He didn't linger. There was nothing for him to see — he'd had few friends, and his family had been gone long before he'd left to follow somebody else's dream.

The winding path to the old castle was rocky and overrun with weeds, the woods that surrounded it as dark and mossy as he remembered. In the pond outside of town children played as he once had, splashing around and throwing frogs at one another. They pointed and jeered as he walked by, then darted away shrieking when he croaked at them. In the corner of his eye, he watched a disgruntled frog hop back to its home.

It was a relief to be out of the midday sun and step into the cool, dark sanctuary of the ruins. His footsteps echoed across the empty hallways as he walked.

The grave was as he'd left it. A thin ray of light from the window pierced the darkness of the crypt, and dust floated idly through the musty air. A layer of it now coated the tombstone; Glenn knelt down and brushed it away. The silence stretched out all around him, filling the air with its lifelessness, and it felt all wrong for Cyrus to lie there like that, as still as the marble under which he slept. Cyrus had never been still — he'd laughed and fought and talked, a sword in his hand and the wind in his hair.

The stone floor was cold under his knees.

"Cyrus," he began, trying to give shape to the jumble of thoughts in his head. "It is done. The war is over. The King has recovered from his wounds and rules the kingdom wisely. Thy knights are in good hands, and they remember your name and what it stood for. The Queen... she remains beyond compare." But that wasn't all, was it? There had been another name that had haunted the halls of this castle.

"I am..." He trailed off, grasping for words, pressing his hand against the tombstone as if to beg it for guidance.

But there were no answers there for him to find. There was no big epiphany, no sudden ray of sunshine to pierce the clouds and light his way, because no matter how much he'd wanted to live up to the legends, life was rarely that simple. There had only been steps, one after the other, ever since Crono walked into his home with a sword in his hand and a grin on his face, and now he only needed to turn back to see how far he'd come. He knew what he had to say, and he had for some time now.

"I am well. I regret the path I took through life. But I do not regret the place it led me to."

And that had been the hardest part, in the end, hadn't it? To let go of the person he'd tried to become and learn to be the one he was. To admit it was such a simple thing, after that. The words still left the bitter taste of betrayal in his mouth, but Glenn knew now that Cyrus wouldn't blame him for it.

"I cannot live thy life for thee. 'Twould fit me as poorly as this skin once did. But I can live my own life and know thou art at peace."

He fell silent, running his fingers across the inscription. The edges of the letters were hard underneath his gloves. His words had lifted no burden from his shoulders, but he saw now that the burden hadn't been there for some time. Cyrus was at rest, and there were no answers left in his tombstone. He'd already given him enough; to ask for more would be the worst greed. What he sought did not lie there.

He bowed his head.

"I thank thee, Cyrus," he said. "For everything."

* * *

Leene's Bell was unveiled on a cool autumn afternoon. It was newer, more polished than the one Glenn remembered, and it caught the sunlight as it was raised to what would be its resting place for the next four hundred years.

After the ceremony, a royal banquet was to be held at the castle. Glenn declined the invitation; if the gesture would cause rumors or scandals he knew not and cared even less. Instead he wandered the streets of Truce, where the common folk celebrated in their own way. Their music and voices and laughter filled the air, and for a while Glenn was content to simply sit and let the sound of their merrymaking wash over him. Merchants sold fruit, meat, and spiced wine at their stalls. Men and women danced around the bonfire, twirling and spinning together in elaborate rhythms. Children ran about chasing fireflies as they streaked through the air with glowing trails in their wake, and he knew not why but suddenly it was the Moonlight Parade that he saw, a year in the past and four hundred in the future, with its lights that exploded in the sky as Glenn said his farewells.

His wine went bitter in his throat.

The guards at the edge of town waved him through with a wistful glance, clearly counting the hours till the end of their shift. The road to the castle was deserted, and he wandered off the path and into the refuge of the trees. The silence of the woods echoed soothingly in his head, and the scent of the dirt and leaves under his boots was refreshingly gentle after the smoke and wine of the town square. When he reached his clearing, he sat down on the grass, breathing slowly and deeply as he listened to the rustle of the trees above him and the faint sounds of revelry in the distance.

There was nothing to alert him to the presence — no movement, no sound. His surroundings were no darker or gloomier than they'd been before. Nothing had changed but his perception. Perhaps he'd grown more attuned to his magic, that he could sense auras more keenly than he once had. Or maybe it was just familiarity. When he turned, Magus stood beside him, a dim silhouette among the trees. The light of the setting sun cast long shadows around him, so dark they almost looked like holes in the world, and Glenn found himself wondering whether he'd fall into the void were he to step through them.

"Fire and Water represent change," Spekkio had said once, in one of his attempts to teach them the theory of magic. "Think of them as the aspects of the physical world. Light is, well, the light that shines above them. It's what illuminates the world and allows us to perceive it. And when Light hits something, it casts a shadow. Shadow encompasses all that lies beyond the three elements, but its shape and boundaries are defined by them. Actually, it doesn't work like that at all, but maybe this way you knuckleheads can wrap your heads around it."

Glenn hadn't understood at the time, but he thought he might begin to. Magus bent the world with his touch; he walked along its boundaries without ever fully finding a place in it, and, if nothing else, Glenn had a notion of what it was like.

The silence stretched out between them. Guardedly, Glenn rose to face him, but Magus' features held none of the anger and bitterness they'd parted with, and there was a sudden, bone-deep weariness in that. Glenn felt it wash over him like the chill of Zeal's winter. He had no real wish to make peace with his old foe, but he'd grown tired of the way they'd keep dancing around each other in their pointless charade. Maybe Magus had as well.

"Why art thou here?" Glenn asked, quietly. "What dost thou wish of me, for thee to continue to seek my company?"

"Simple curiosity. Nothing more."

"Ah. And hast thou satisfied thy curiosity, then? Hast thou seen what thou wishest to see?"

A grimace flickered on Magus' face, quick enough that it might have been a shadow passing over him. "This is a waste of my time," he muttered, then turned to step back into the darkness of the forest. Glenn should have let him go, he knew, but...

He didn't want to talk to him. Nor did he need to. But he spoke regardless, his voice a soft croak.

"Wait."

Magus halted, though he did not turn, and Glenn clenched his fists. It was too late to turn back.

"The spell thou hast cursed me with — is there any way to break it?"

Slowly, Magus turned to face him, his cloak fluttering about him as if caught in the wind. "Heh. I'd wondered how long it would take you to gather the courage to ask." There was a familiar edge to his voice. "There is but one way. The spell is tied to my life force. When I die, it will follow."

Glenn let out a long, slow breath.

"I gave you the chance, once, after the fall of Zeal," Magus said, tugging at his gloves. The expression on his face was dark and intense and utterly unreadable. "If—"

Glenn didn't know what Magus was about to say, whether he was about to make the offer once more, whether this was his twisted idea of making amends. But he knew suddenly, with all his being, that he did not wish to hear the end of that sentence. "I have made by choice," he said, "and I will stand by it."

"Hmph. Still a coward, I see."

"No. 'Tis not cowardice that stays my hand. I do not fear thee."

A shadow passed over Magus' face. Glenn might have flinched at the sight of it, once. "I don't need your forgiveness."

"Good. Thou hast it not."

Would Magus would grow angry, Glenn wondered, as he had in Fiona's forest? Would he attack him, perhaps, or leave?

But Magus simply turned away, and a harsh, heavy silence fell over them.

"How could you do it?" Magus asked at length. "How could you just let go of—" He raised a hand only to let it drop to his side.

And this was the heart of the matter, was it not? The question that had hung between them unspoken for so long. _And how long did it take thee to gather the courage to ask?_ Glenn almost wanted to say.

Slowly, he breathed out.

"I hated thee," he began, quietly. "For a long time, I dreamt of finding the Masamune and thrusting it into thy shriveled black heart. At the Ocean Palace, I could think of nothing else. Lavos was before us, and yet I was so blinded that I was ready to swear vengeance with my very last breath. 'Twas Crono who..." He shook his head. "Afterwards, when I heard thy tale and saw what vengeance had cost thee... I thought of what was truly important to me, of what Cyrus had wanted, of what I could have done to help Crono had I not been... And I asked myself what more I was prepared to risk for my revenge."

"Ha. _Risk_. I'd have burned the world and laughed at the ashes. No matter how many lives I had to sacrifice for it..."

"...even thine own. But not hers, I think."

"I wonder. For so many years, I'd lived to slay Lavos. Saving her had never been an option. In all my time in your wretched age, I'd never imagined I could just... go back. I was... I didn't know what to do. So I did the only thing I knew. I sought Lavos. But there were other ways I could have saved her. I could have prevented the Mammon Machine from activating. It was only lying there before Lavos that..." Magus trailed off with a strangled laugh.

"Hadst thou done that, we may never have found a way to conquer Lavos. Couldst thou accept that?"

When Magus finally spoke, his voice was but a whisper.

"I don't know."

The sun had almost completely set by now; only the faint twilight was left to light the air between them.

"I have found," Glenn said slowly, careful not to look at the man by his side, "that dwelling overmuch on past mistakes does little to help one right them."

For a while, Magus didn't reply. Then he shifted, slightly, and pulled at his gloves. "I won't apologize for what I've done. But if I could go back, I would act differently. Cyrus" — he looked away then, his tone curt and perhaps almost uncertain — "Cyrus was a good man."

Glenn nodded, and silence fell once more.

Something still hung between them, unfinished, and it pulled at them both. Maybe the fault was his; he'd turned down his chance to end it neatly, and now they had to deal with what remained. But they couldn't be enemies any more, no matter how much they may have wished to.

The first time he'd seen Magus had been on the mountains of Denadoro, as he stood in the fiery light of the setting sun. He'd seemed to tower over him then, with his dark aura and his flowing cape. Looking at him now, he realized Magus must have been a young man then — no older than the valiant knight he'd sent to his doom. His memories failed him. The face that had haunted his nights for so long had been dark, cruel, and powerful — not young.

When had he stopped fearing the man who'd changed him?

He remembered how Magus had looked that day on the northern capes of what remained of Zeal, tired and broken. Yet he'd stood there, smiling, and offered Glenn the retribution he'd sought, and still Glenn didn't understand why. He didn't know whether he wanted to.

He turned to look at the darkening sky through the canopy of leaves.

"How goes thy search?" he asked, idly.

Magus' silence was answer enough.

Glenn had been wrong before: Magus had changed. But then, there was something unsettling in finding what you'd sought for so long and discovering that the world kept turning regardless.

"I would accompany thee, if thou wouldst allow it."

Magus spun around to face him then. Glenn could see the questions fighting in his face — the surprise, anger, confusion.

"Why?" he asked.

 _Because I trust thee not, and I wish to keep my eye on thee_ , Glenn wanted to say. _Because thy sister deserves my help, even if thou dost not_. And they wouldn't have been lies. But they would have been excuses, and Glenn had grown weary of them, of late.

"Simple curiosity," he said in the end. It might even have been the truth.

"I don't need your help."

"No. I imagine not."

In the corner of his vision, Glenn saw Magus' gloved hand clench and unclench.

"Come to Truce Canyon at sunrise," Magus said. "Maybe I will be there."

And then he was gone.

* * *

He left before the light of dawn. He didn't speak to the King or the Knight Captain, who would surely beg him to stay. He spoke to the Queen, who sat alone in her chambers and did not seem surprised when he told her he wished to leave.

"Go then and find whatever it is you search for," she told him. "I won't ask you to stay. I won't ask you to come back. I won't tell you I'll wait for you." And Glenn knew, with white-hot certainty, that she meant those things, and he was grateful for it.

When he stole into the barracks, Guardia's finest men lay about in a drunken stupor that would have got them beaten any other day of the year. Stepping over their prone figures, he crept to the bunk where Tata slept and silently placed the Hero's Medal beside his head. Maybe the day would come that he'd feel ready to take it up. Or, perhaps, it would not. Glenn knew what he hoped for, for the boy's sake, but it was not his place to choose for him. Tata had once caught a glimpse of the weight that the Hero bore. He, more than anyone else, would know not to make the choice lightly.

The boy shifted in his sleep.

Outside, the sky was still dark. The silhouette of the castle loomed behind him, but he did not turn to look at it. The first time he'd laid eyes on it, years before the war, he'd thought it would last through the ages to display the glory of Guardia for all generations to come. He understood now how long eternity truly was. But it would stand for a while, and he knew it would be enough. And there would still be a place for him there if he wanted it.

He wasn't running. He'd done enough of that. But he no longer knew what being Glenn the squire was like, and he'd begun to realize that he never truly had. Cyrus' role had fit him ill. He knew who he was, now, but not his place in his world. Perhaps he'd find out. Perhaps he wouldn't, but that was fine too. There was always time.

The Masamune hummed with power by his side, and if he stopped to listen it almost sounded like the whistling of the wind.

By the time he'd climbed to the top of the hill, the early morning light was beginning to tinge the leaves with autumn's warm colors. Magus stood there among the shadows of the trees and Glenn was almost surprised to find that he'd expected it.

"If you slow me down," Magus said as a greeting. "I won't hesitate to kill you."

"I have no doubt that thou wilt try."

Magus did not dignify that with a response, and for a while they stood there, silently, listening to the sound of the wind through the leaves.

"Well," said Magus eventually. "I suppose you'll come in useful should I ever need a princess kissed."

"Thou hast thy stories backwards. 'Tis the princess who kisseth the frog."

The only answer was a twitch of Magus' mouth.

Magus' magic — his true shadow magic, not his hollow replicas of the other elements — was always a strange sight to behold. With a few whispered words and a flick of his wrist he tore open the fabric of existence. It was unlike the gates that Glenn had grown used to. This was a subtler, quieter thing.

"I've wasted enough time here," said Magus. "Hurry or I'll leave you behind."

He held out his hand, and, with only a moment's hesitation, Glenn took it.


End file.
